Page 120 of Only the Wicked

If it had been a female agent, I’d assume David was cheating on his wife again. But I’m certain he’s not gay. Bi? The conversation seemed heated.

I shoot the image off to Quinn.

* * *

Me

FBI agent from the bar yesterday. Can you verify facial recognition with his badge?

* * *

I’m down in the lobby when a text comes through.

* * *

Quinn

Zero facial recognition matches. No known bureau personnel.

* * *

Huh. Stolen badge credentials. What do you know?

Rhodes is under Russian pressure to acquire a database. A senator with intelligence clearance is meeting with someone using falsified FBI credentials. The same fake agent attempted to approach me after I was seen with Rhodes.

Could it all be connected?

If so, it has the hallmarks of a multi-pronged intelligence operation—the Russians applying direct pressure while simultaneously using domestic assets to monitor or influence the target. Classic pincer technique. But there’s something off about the pattern. If Crawford is compromised by Russia, why would the fake agent approach me so brazenly in the hotel bar? That’s not how Russian intelligence typically operates.

Unless this isn’t a Russian operation at all. Unless there’s a third player I haven’t identified yet.

I check my watch. The formal event is in less than ten hours—a perfect opportunity for multiple intelligence services to converge around high-value targets. It would be helpful to identify the relevant players before the event.

Instead of hitting the pavement, I head back to Jake’s room. He opens the door on my first knock.

“We’re staying,” he greets me, freshly showered and awake. “Hudson called. He wants to know who’s behind the blackmail.”

“That’s pretty obvious,” I say, stepping inside, but not before doing a visual sweep along the hallway to ensure we’re alone. “The ops changing.”

“Tend to do that,” Jake says with a low-key shrug.

I pull out my phone and share the photo I snapped of a US senator and a man pretending to be an FBI agent. Jake’s expression changes instantly—the casual demeanor replaced by the focused intensity I’ve seen in operators in high-risk scenarios.

“This complicates things,” he says quietly, zooming in on the fake agent’s face. “I know this guy.”

“From where?”

Jake’s eyes meet mine, his expression grim. “Not from the bureau, that’s for damn sure.” He reaches for his secure phone. “We need to contact Hudson. Now.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

Rhodes

Sweat drips down my brow as I push through mile fourteen, my lungs burning with each breath. I’ve been running since dawn, punishing my body in a futile attempt to clear my head. Last night’s revelations, Sydney’s confession, our subsequent intimacy—it’s all a tangled mess I can’t seem to unravel at any pace under seven minutes per mile.

I check my watch, not for the time, but for the temperature. It’s going to be a hot day, and while the trees in Rock Creek Park provide momentary shade, the humidity clings to my skin like a warning. A familiar figure comes into view on the trail ahead—short dark hair, laptop open on her lap, face more serious than I’ve ever seen. Daisy. I always say she’s like a little sister, but really she’s my most trusted lieutenant. I tried to get her to come on as a partner, but she refused, claiming she didn’t like to stay at one company for too long. Meanwhile, she’s still with us, although admittedly, she insists on remote work and hasn’t stepped foot inside the office in two years. She’s the last person I expected to travel to D.C., but here she is.